All That Matters

by Wayson Choy

  “Jack asked if you and Jenny would bring him home,” she said. “Just the two of you. No one else.”

  “Yes,” I said, as simple as that. Jenny, unable to speak, took Mrs. O’Connor in her arms, and the two women embraced as if they were companions in loss.

  “Don’t you mind if my boy looks so terrible?” Mrs. O’Connor kept saying, over and over. “Don’t you mind?”

  If Jenny minded, she said nothing. And while we waited for Jack’s train, she said even less. A cloud passed over us, melting away the shadow of the bridge, and a light rain began to fall. Jenny lifted her shawl into a makeshift hood. Her eyes were sad, but in the sombre light she looked even lovelier.

  “Jack won’t know me,” she said. “I’m a different person.”

  A horn shook the air, followed by a clanging bell.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” announced a man wearing a CPR cap, “please stand back from the tracks.”

  A small crowd rushed to the farthest end of the platform to wait for the engine to round the bend. Some openly wept.

  The young nurses passed among us to explain how the arrivals might be expected to disembark. Ramp A was for veterans who would be arriving strapped in rigged cots, and B and D, fitted with extra handrails, were for those using crutches. Ramp C, the longest ramp, was for those using wheelchairs. Each passenger car would display a designated letter.

  An old man standing near us glanced at his watch and made a face, as if to say to everyone, Get ready.

  A short blast sent flocks of gulls into the sky. The train’s clanging bell echoed under the bridge and reechoed between the inlet shores. Jenny and I headed towards ramp C.

  Voices rose and fell.

  “Tell me, Kiam …”

  We stopped. There was no rush.

  “Tell you what, Jenny?”

  Another blast sounded. Attendants shouted instructions. The heavy wooden ramps were being lifted and dragged, leaving behind claw marks.

  “Tell me, Kiam, why you and I can’t let him go.”

  The train thundered forward and drowned all our voices. Puffs of white smoke billowed under the bridge. I held my breath. A long time ago, I had seen such clouds of steam rising from a great distance. With an ear-wrenching screech, like the cry of a dragon, the train halted. Soon we would be home. I put my hand on Jenny’s shoulder. We watched as ramp C was locked into place.

  NOTE

  The “dark time” in the Dedication refers to the year 2001 when my life was interrupted by medical emergencies. This book is dedicated to the excellent medical and rehabilitation teams, the doctors and nurses, and the vital volunteers, of Toronto’s St. Michael’s Hospital and Bridgepoint Hospital.

  The book is further dedicated to the friends and family members who stood by me and rallied my spirit and to the communities of Humber College and the Humber School for Writers who kept in touch during those four months—all of you contributed to my eventual recovery. Many should be named, but I resist for fear that I might, inadvertently, leave out someone who mattered.

  And, not least, this book is dedicated to Wayson Michael Lowe, to Quinn Roy and Tessa Hill, to Kathryn Schweishelm, to Tosh and Gary Noseworthy, and to their loyal and affectionate families.

  Please know that your love and generous actions have deepened the moral fabric and themes of All That Matters.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Regarding this work, the following contributed to my knowledge of the period—aside from those already acknowledged in my novel, The Jade Peony, and in my memoir, Paper Shadows—the books are: Brereton Greenhous, A Canadian Catastrophe, 1941-1945 (Dundurn/Canadian War Museum); Margery Wolf and Roxane Witke, ed., Women in Chinese Society (Stanford University Press); Ono Kazuko, Chinese Women in a Century of Revolution, 1850-1950 J. A. Fogel, ed., (Stanford University Press); Thomas Tsu-wee Tan, Your Chinese Roots, The Overseas Chinese Story (Times Books International); Bill McNeil, Voices of a War Remembered (Doubleday Canada); Michael Kluckner, Vancouver, The Way It Was (Whitecap Books); Wing Chung Ng, The Chinese in Vancouver, 1945-80 (UBC Press); E. G. Perrault, Tong. The Story of Tong Louie, Vancouver’s Quiet Titan (Harbour Publishing); Faith Moonsang, First Son, Portraits by C.D. Hoy (Arsenal Pulp Press); the writings of Roy Mah, Larry Wong, and Paul Yee. Extensive interviews, photos and relevant clippings, school annuals and catalogues were generously shared by King Lee, Robert Yip, Fred Jong, members of the David Lee family, Alex Louie, Norman Wong, David Smith, Marie Yip, Larry Wong, Helen McQuade, Wesley Lowe, Sister Marie-Vie Chua; and in Hong Kong, Watt Chow, Crystal Tang, Allen and Brenda Wong, Donna Mah; and countless others.

  The dedicated professionals at the Vancouver Public and Metro Toronto libraries, particularly those members in the reference and archival departments, were an immense help. I must single out John Smith of Toronto who went searching the War Museum and Ottawa archives for a single detail. Personal help was given by Michael Glassbourg and team members Elisa, Michele, Laura and Tanya.

  Of course, for the purposes of a fictional work, I am responsible for my characters’ insights and for their limited and sometimes distorted knowledge of the world they inhabit. I have simplified the various ways to reproduce Chinese dialects, choosing my readers’ comfort over any academic correctness. For the same reason, I have simplified traditional references to family and friendship relations (for which there can be over one hundred possible words in Chinese).

  My early and most recent readers deserve thanks for their astute suggestions, including Charis Wahl, Antanas Sileika, Joe Kertes, Ken Dyba, Karl Schweishelm, Betty Thiessen, Janet Somerville, ‘Esco’, Angela Fina, and my indomitable agent, Denise Bukowski. Jacob and Alice Zilber, Kit Wilson-Pote and Mary Jo Morris read the material many times over with a verve for details, as did Judy Fong Bates and Michael Bates. I also thank copy editor Shaun Oakey and proofreader Alison Reid for their professional work.

  For their unbending faith that this book would be completed, and as my publisher and editorial advisor, I especially thank Maya Mavjee and Martha Kanya-Forstner.

  Finally, the blessings of a community of friends and readers have supported my writing and kept me going. Ten thousand thanks to everyone.